Fancy Eyes

No matter or molecule could morph the treasure more
the eyes of a child,
like waves to the shore.

Older it's easier to belong to some academy
or learning where every object and its detail
is as harshly real as it's symmetry.
Nightmares become explained,
and dreams become controlled.
Shadows lose their edge and creaks,
and hallow cries in the dark become
explained in a chain of rational thinking.
Footsteps in the woods become animals,
and cries in the gloom only the wind.
How our eyes turn petrified and cool?
Like a bending phantom would take them,
and in exchange for some knowledge
we loose legitimate fantasy.
Age opens and closes violently and quietly,
doors in a drafty mansion.
We get caught in the moving and bending.
No longer would that mansion,
hold any devil beneath the floor
or wraith in the attic singing.
Just old boxes with weight shifting
and rats running back and forth
on wooden beams up high in dusty air.
In time our eye's want to return to the notion
of possibility, where in reality anything is possible.
Our eyes cry for this, an unknown ailment,
till nostalgia wrenches us.
And our dreams involve only memory.

No matter or molecule could morph the treasure more
our eyes of a child,
like waves to the shore.